Writing a poem now
seems a daunting task.
I used to write
every night
––multiples a week!
no one had to tell me,
ask,
no one had to seek.
What should I write about?
I'd just look around.
It'd come,
It'd flow
The words were happiest when found
––They'd tell me and I'd know.
But then, months later,
uninspired as I was,
Confused, upset
and just a little lost...
I looked back
and took a gander at my outlaid pride.
To my dismay, to my contempt,
my words were silly
and had no cause.
Upset upset
What am I writing for?
The talent I have
is in my head
and I need to be alone
once more.